Homecoming
by crazywriter10
Summary: There are some nights when it's Phil waiting on Clint, and not the other way around. Clint/Coulson


I think I have found a new fandom. Lemme know what ya think, and any mistakes are mine. And of course I don't own anything.

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Phil finally called it quits on trying to catch up on his files around one in the morning. He wasn't really "catching up", per say, but it was something he could do to pass the time and exhaust him to the point where he could catch more than a couple hours of sleep.

How he'd gone from a single man content to sleep alone to a boyfriend who couldn't catch decent shut eye in an empty bed was still a mystery to him, until he factored in the reason: a certain SHIELD agent archer with a smart mouth.

The same certain agent who had been away on a classified mission – not even Phil knew, and Phil knew practically _everything_ – for four days. Clint hadn't been able to tell him when he was approximately coming home when Barton had to leave, and Phil nodded, knowing it was expected. Didn't make not knowing any easier, really, but it was something they had both dealt with – and would continue to deal with.

So when Phil got back to his room, stripped down to his boxers, and finally crawled into bed, he kept thoughts of Clint as far from his mind as possible. While it didn't help a whole lot, it helped a little. Not that it mattered, in the end, as he was up around two in the morning with the need to pee from all the coffee he'd drank.

Phil did his business, shut the light off in the bathroom behind him, and froze. There was somebody else in the room – somebody else in the bed, actually – and for one insane second he wished he hadn't left his gun in the bedside drawer. Then again, in what universe would he need to take his gun to the bathroom in the middle of the night when living in a mansion of superheroes?

The figure on the bed snuffled – quite familiarly, too – and Phil heaved a sigh of relief that was short lived when he nearly face-planted into the carpet after tripping over a rather heavy quiver. He made it to the other side of the bed without further incident and switched on the lamp.

Clint, still mostly clad in his uniform, was lying diagonally across the bed with his face mashed against Phil's pillow.

Well then.

Phil reached out and pushed Clint's hair off his forehead, noting his fingers were immediately covered in dried, flaking mud. Clint's eyes opened a slit and he grunted.

"Hey," Phil said, keeping his voice low. "How about we get you outta that uniform before you crash completely?"

Clint sighed and started to heave himself upward, slumping as he sat on the edge of the bed and waiting for Phil to come around. Clint had managed to get the outer, bulkier armor off his torso, but the bottom layers were still present and accounted for, though his boots were missing. Further inspection of the room found Clint's boots by the door, and Phil smirked a little as he tugged the neoprene undershirt Clint wore up his back and over his head, mussing his hair further. Clint pitched forward until his forehead hit Phil's abdomen and sighed again. Phil chuckled softly and ran his hands through the hairs at the nape of Barton's neck and across his tight shoulders; the archer was practically vibrating with the need to sleep.

"Alright, up we go." Phil hooked his fingers into the back of Clint's uniform pants and pulled while backing up, bringing Clint to his feet and up Phil's own body. Barton shifted slightly, pressing his face into Phil's neck and looping his arms loosely around Coulson's waist. Once he had Clint braced against him, Phil brought his hands around to the fastenings on the front of Clint's pants. Barton huffed against Phil's neck, and Phil had to literally peel the pants down Clint's hips and thighs until they were pooled around his ankles and easy to step out of.

"You want boxers or you good?" Phil asked, settling his hands on Clint's lower back, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of his boxer briefs. Barton didn't like restrictive clothing when he slept, so it was either in boxers and one of Phil's t-shirts, or it was naked.

Clint ground his forehead against Phil's collarbone and murmured, "Good."

Phil backed Clint toward the edge of the bed and turned them enough to have a free hand to properly roll back the comforter and sheets. He was half tempted to let gravity and a soft landing do the work, but from the bruises beginning to show across Clint's arms and torso, it probably wasn't the best idea. Phil eased the slightly smaller man down easily and Clint, once he was partially horizontal, did the rest by bringing his legs up and turning on his side, unerringly going toward Phil's pillow. Phil chuckled, knowing he'd have to physically move Clint back to his own side of the bed long enough to get in the damn thing, but that was okay. He went around to the other side of the bed, turned out the light, and waited a few seconds to let his eyes adjust to the darkness.

In the span of less than two minutes, Clint had migrated to the exact middle of the mattress with his face planted in Phil's pillow.

Coulson rolled his eyes, sat on the edge of the bed, and literally started pushing what amounted to Clint's practically deadweight body toward his own side of the mattress, ignoring any grumbling – articulate or otherwise – coming from the other man. As soon as he was settled with the comforter over the pair of them, Clint attached himself like a limpet to Phil's front and had his arms and legs searching for as much skin to skin contact as he could find. Coulson huffed out a small laugh, pressed a kiss to Clint's unruly hair, and wrapped his arms around the archer's back.

"Welcome home," Phil murmured, allowing Clint's warmth to seep through his shirt and lull him to sleep.


End file.
